“Laugh?” said Harold Ratter. “I’m telling you, I nearly split my sides. Really, I did.”
Mr. Ratter was a mountainous man, large in every dimension. It was the increase in his girth that had driven him to leave the ranks of the Metropolitan Police and join City Detectives. If he did split his sides, thought Captain Hartshorn, the results would be dramatic.
“The moment he laid eyes on me, and it was not surprising he did, me being what you might call a conspicuous figure, I could see he had something on his mind. A guilty conscience. With the practice I’ve had I can spot a guilty conscience a mile away, in a manner of speaking.”
“Excellent,” said Hartshorn. “Then what?”
“I thought, there’s something on here, so I followed him up. I didn’t atcherly see him pushing that book – the one he’d nicked – back on the shelf.”
“Pity.”
“However, I saw him by the shelf. Next best thing.”
“It would have been even better if you’d seen him putting it back,” said Hartshorn.
Mr. Ratter considered the suggestion that he should commit perjury and rejected it regretfully. “The way it was, I only got to the door after it was all over. Lucky I did though. He seemed to be thinking of making a break for it, but he couldn’t get past me.”
It was clear that when Mr. Ratter was standing in a doorway no one was going to get past him at all easily.
“Then, I suppose, the police were called and he was charged and taken off.”
“Speaking personally, I was a bit surprised at that. Usually, I mean, normally when someone who’s pretty well-known gets involved in something not too serious – like it might be a member of parliament being done for careless driving – he’d be warned to expect a summons and when it arrived he’d turn up at the court, or instruct his solicitor to do it, and everything would be handled, as you might say, discreetly.”
“But in this case Mullen was charged?”
“Well, you see how it was. I had to tell the constable that I thought he’d tried to bolt. So, from that point of view, he didn’t have much option. Any old how, he could see what the manager wanted. A funny little character he was, with a white beard. Like one of them dwarfs in Snow White. The manager, I mean. Well, as soon as he heard that Mullen was not only a South African, but a South African policeman, he was so excited he nearly lost his top set. Charge him! Why, what he really wanted was to have him taken away in chains.”
“Interesting reaction,” said Hartshorn. “So Mullen was led off to the police station. I don’t suppose he cared for that.”
“I should say not. He started blowing off about international something or other and diplomatic something else. Would have done you good to hear him.”
“I must congratulate you. You did an excellent job and when I speak to your head man I won’t forget it. However, since I fancy Mullen would recognise you if he saw you again, you’d better put a different man on his tail. Can I leave you to fix that up?”
“You want us to stay on the job?”
“More than ever,” said Hartshorn. “Lots for everyone to do.”
When Mr. Ratter had rolled away he turned to the other men in his office. Even Kabaka, normally pessimistic, was smiling.
“What do you think, Govan?”
“Not bad,” said Kabaka. From him this meant ‘very good’.
“I wonder if you appreciate exactly how good this is. You realise, of course, that the time has come for us to change gear.”
Mkeba clearly understood him. Kabaka and Masangi tried to look as though they did. Sesolo was baffled.
Hartshorn said, “So far as the South African government are concerned, apartheid was always a black card. It gave their opponents a moral edge against them, and was, anyway, unenforceable. So – they have proceeded to dismantle it. The Mixed Marriages Act, the Pass Laws and the Immorality Acts have all been repealed and the Homeland strategy has been abandoned. The recent announcement by de Klerk that he was opening the Nationalist Party to black and white alike knocked away the last plank. Apartheid is dead.”
“So what you’re telling us,” said Mkeba, “is that anti-apartheid is dead, too.”
It was Boyo Sesolo who took this most hardly. He was a simple soul, and enjoyed combat. He made a grumbling noise deep in his throat and said, “Then who do we fight?”
“The people who matter,” said Hartshorn. “The only people capable of turning the clock back. The South African police. And one of them has been delivered into our hands.”
“How do you suggest we go about it?” said Masangi.
“Let’s think it out,” said Hartshorn. “He’ll appear in court tomorrow morning. But the proceedings will be formal, so we don’t want to get people steamed up. Just a tip-off that this could be the start of something exciting.”
“One evening paper, one middle-of-the-road daily,” said Kabaka.
“That sort of thing. Then, by the time he appears on remand they’ll all be waiting for him with their tongues hanging out.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” said Kabaka. “He’ll plead diplomatic immunity and ten-to-one he’ll get away with it. And the defence will ask for a reporting ban on the hearing. That won’t stop them commenting, of course. But they’ll have to watch their step.”
Mkeba said, “We might be able to help the prosecution. I don’t think, from what your daughter’s told us, that he’s got an open-and-shut case on the diplomatic immunity angle. He’s not an official on a proper posting. Just a visiting fireman.”
“Nothing to stop them saying what they like about him,” said Kabaka. “They’ve got all the cards in their hands.”
Hartshorn wasn’t listening. He was lying back in his chair with the look of a child to whom Father Christmas has presented a wonderful unexpected present.
He said, “Just suppose he can’t wriggle out under some sort of diplomatic cover. Suppose he goes for trial, with Jack Katanga as the main prosecution witness. They’re very hot on shop-lifting these days. Why, he might even get a prison sentence.”
“It might snow krugerrands,” said Govan Kabaka.
Fischer Yule was not amused and he took no trouble to hide his feelings. He said, “That was a bloody silly thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t see how I could help it.”
“Perhaps you didn’t know – as now seems to be the case – that the detective on the corner was nothing to do with the shop. He’d no status in the matter. So all you had to do was to walk off and drop that stupid book into the river. Trying to put it back was simply childish panic.”
“If he wasn’t the store detective, who was he? And what was he doing there?”
“I’d have thought you could have guessed the answer to that. A private detective, no doubt, whose job was to keep an eye on you. Probably hired by our friends in Mornington Square, with instructions to see what you were up to. And, of course, he wasn’t going to turn up a chance of getting you into trouble if the opportunity was presented to him on a plate. As it was.”
Mullen disliked both the matter and manner of Yule’s comments and in the ordinary way he would not have hesitated to demonstrate his feelings and answer them in kind. Two things restrained him. The first was that he realised that he was in a fix and that Yule and his organisation were probably the only people who could get him out of it. The second reason was disconcerting. In the past his position and his powers had enabled him to frighten a great number of people. Now he was faced with someone who frightened him. If Yule did return to Pretoria as chairman of the prestigious State Security Council, a position for which he had been tipped, the first head to roll might be his own. And heads which rolled in South Africa rolled an uncomfortably long way.
“We’re getting repercussions from this book, already,” Yule went on. “Copies have been distributed secretly in the Rand.
“Now it will be required reading for everyone who has any connection with the mines, employers and employed. Katanga’s own boys in the Anti-Forced Labour Movement are busy organising a one-day lightning strike. When the news of what’s happened here reaches them, I doubt if it’ll be confined to one day. It could even have repercussions beyond the mining-belt. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying, Colonel.”
“Yes,” said Mullen unhappily.
“So it’s got to be stopped.”
“By claiming diplomatic privilege, you mean? What do you think the chances are?”
“Silverborn’s working on that now. We’ll see what he has to say about it in a moment. There’s something else I wanted to tell you first.”
He brought out the three folders that Mullen had seen before, but this time he selected the red and green ones. He said, “I agreed, you remember, that your historical record of Katanga started sooner than ours and was more detailed. But history, to paraphrase Mr. Ford, isn’t everything. This—” he laid his hand on the green file —“deals with personal affairs. Katanga’s household in Putney, his wife, his wife’s father in Norfolk and like matters. The red file, however, is in some ways the most interesting of the three. It contains medical information. Now, if I have gathered the facts of that unfortunate bookshop incident correctly, the one essential witness for the prosecution is Katanga himself.”
“That must be right. He’s the only one who claims he saw me touch the book.”
“So that if, for any reason, he was unable or unwilling to come forward, the case would fall to the ground.”
“Of course he’ll come forward. Why not? He’ll make a meal of it.”
“Because it’s just possible that he might die before the case comes on.”
Mullen stared at him. If this statement had been made to him in South Africa he would have understood its implications. But in England?
Yule, who had read his mind said, with a slight smile, “No, Colonel. I was not talking about – what is the cant expression? – expedient demise. What I meant was that he might die at any moment from natural causes. Basically, he is a very strong and healthy man, but there are certain precautions he has to take. The details are all in the folder. It seems that, about two years ago, he had an accident. He was, by that time, a regular, possibly a fairly heavy drinker. His preferred tipple was whisky. Sometimes he poured it out himself. Sometimes his wife poured it out for him. On this occasion he came in hot and tired, picked up a glass that was on the table and took a large gulp of its contents, which unfortunately for him, consisted of disinfectant, slightly diluted with water. It had been got ready by his wife to dress the paw of their dog. The result was serious, but not fatal. When he reached hospital it was discovered that his gullet was badly scarred. His windpipe, was not, of course, affected, or not directly. You’ll understand that better if you look at the sketch our doctor drew for me. The red one is the gullet, the blue one is the windpipe. Food down one, air down the other.”
“I’d no idea they were so close to each other.”
“Not just close, actually touching. That’s the whole point. Katanga was warned that the scarring in his gullet could lead to oedema.”
“Come again.”
Yule, who was enjoying the opportunity of displaying medical expertise, said, “Oedema is the technical name for an unhealthy mass of swollen tissue. If it was allowed to accumulate around the gullet it would not only make swallowing difficult, it might start to exert pressure on the windpipe also.”
“And that is what it is doing?”
“Not at the moment. Because, as I said, he is taking precautions. Every two or three days he uses a bougie. That is a plastic affair which can be swallowed and brought up again. It can’t be a very pleasant operation. To help it slip down I understand that it’s dipped into a bowl of olive oil, which is kept handy in the sideboard for this purpose. You get the picture?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” said Mullen. “What I don’t understand is where you got all this information from. Not from his doctor, surely.”
“Not from his doctor, no.” Yule closed the red file gently and opened the green one. “The information came to us in the course of our routine enquiries. You must not imagine that we sit about all day doing nothing. No, no. When Katanga arrived in this country five years ago, by a most irregular route, incidentally, and with no proper papers, we naturally devoted close attention to him. Our first endeavours were directed to getting him sent back to Mozambique.”
“Mine, also.”
“Quite so. We have been working on the same lines. With an equal lack of success. Our next step was to find out as much as we possibly could about Katanga himself. If we could deflate his popularity, both within establishment circles here and with the general public world-wide, that would be an important step forward. And we had one piece of luck. For the first three years of his stay he lived in a small rented house on a road just south of Hammersmith Bridge. The housework was shared between his wife and a worthy widow called Mrs. Queen, who lived next door. Two years ago, for some reason – possibly an upsurge of anti-black feeling in the locality, who knows? – he decided to move. An increasingly busy programme of writing and speaking was putting a fair amount of money into his pocket. I suspect, also, that he was being handsomely subsidised from Mornington Square. Anyway, he took a step up the social ladder. He rented a small house in the Putney area. It was a somewhat isolated property on the fringe of the Heath. The move meant that he had to look elsewhere for help in the house. This was our chance. We were able to supply him with just what he required.”
Yule paused to locate the paper he wanted in the green folder. Mullen could see that he was enjoying himself. He did not grudge him his pleasure. He had a feeling that this development would be to his advantage.
“So. Let me introduce you to Anna. Full name, Anna Masai, a Basuto girl from Maseru in Lesotho. Her ‘father’ – I use the word in inverted commas – is Leon Macheli, a professor of applied science at Durban University and a world expert in physical crystallography. A certain unfortunate event in his home town – you may know the incident I’m referring to—”
Mullen did indeed know about it. It was a cross-border attack into Lesotho in search of ANC supporters.
“It decided him to cut adrift and come to England. In view of his fine academic record he had no difficulty in getting a residence permit for himself and his wife and for Anna, who was included by him as his daughter. Our information was more accurate. She was neither his natural nor his adopted daughter. Simply a girl in whom he had taken an interest and who had adopted his name. Pretty enough, in a snub-nosed immature way and intelligent. He had taught her some English. In short, she was his protégée. He wanted her with him in England and in getting her there committed himself to the mis-statement that she was his daughter. A criminal offence in both countries.”
“I see,” said Mullen. The possibilities of the situation were becoming increasingly apparent.
“I interviewed her myself and made the situation quite clear. Either she did what I told her, or she and the Professor – to whom, I fancy, she was sincerely attached – suffered the consequences. It did not take her long to make up her mind. We equipped her with excellent references and told her to be prepared to accept a very reasonable wage. Before long she was installed in the Katanga household. To the satisfaction of Dorothy Katanga, because Anna was a hard worker, and to Jack Katanga for – possibly – other reasons.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean what you’re thinking. Katanga was by now a virile, forceful, mature man. I can easily suppose that his little missionary-reared wife had lost most of the original attraction she had for him. You will have noted that they had no children.”
“So he seduced the hired help.”
“If he did – and it is only a presumption – he was both careful and tactful. His wife, with their newly acquired wealth, was able to enjoy long shopping mornings in the West End. And the house, remember, was isolated. Also he did not make the mistake that some men have made – read your criminal cases – of degrading or insulting his wife. On the contrary, he behaved more courteously to her – particularly in public – than he had, perhaps, done before.”
“Are you suggesting that Katanga’s wife welcomed the importation of a mistress into the household?”
“I don’t know whether she welcomed it. She may not even have known what went on when she was out shopping. However, that is not the real point. What we have to look at—” he had touched the bell on his desk and said to Mrs. Portland, “Would you ask Mr. Silverborn to step in? Thank you. — What we must look at very carefully are the chances of keeping this deplorable case out of court altogether. Ah, Lewis, you have some news for us.”
“Views, not news,” said Mr. Silverborn. “I find that we are in a curiously unexplored field of the law. Most of it stems from the Vienna Conventions of 1961 and 1963 and there are very few decided cases to help us. In fact, most of the decisions and statements are American. Not binding on our courts, of course, but since the Americans have adopted both Conventions on almost exactly the same lines as we have, they could be regarded as persuasive.”
“And what is the answer at the end of the day?”
Like all lawyers this was the sort of question that Mr. Silverborn disliked. He said, “The only answer I can give you is that if Mr. Mullen can be regarded as a diplomatic agent, then he would be totally immune from the criminal jurisdiction of our courts.”
“And how would it be decided whether he was a diplomatic agent or not?”
“That is a question for experts in international law. I have already had a word—” he turned to Mullen, who was showing signs of impatience —“with your English solicitor, Mr. Roger Sherman. He fully appreciates the difficulties of the position and, no doubt, has already sent a set of instructions to Counsel. If we are denied the protection of diplomatic privilege in the Magistrates’ Court, we should have to appeal to a Divisional Court. Indeed, if the Divisional Court found against us, we might have to take the matter on to the Court of Appeal. In either case Counsel will be needed. In the end, senior Counsel.”
Mullen, who had been coming quietly to the boil, now exploded. He said, “For God’s sake, how long do you think this legal hurdle-race is going to take?”
“The court will usually expedite such matters if there is a valid reason for doing so.”
“Valid reason! Do you realise I only came here to try to get Katanga extradited? I’ve got to be back in Pretoria by the end of the month to give evidence at the U.D.F. terrorist trial. I never anticipated being here for more than a few weeks at the outside.”
“I promise you that we’ll waste no time,” said Mr. Silverborn. He tried not to let the fact that he disliked Mullen colour his reactions.
In the room next door, Kathleen was saying to Rosemary, “You’ve been scribbling very busily. What’s it all about?”
“Something I’m getting up for the big white chief,” said Rosemary. She had stopped scribbling, but her pencil was still poised.
“How’s the hag-ography going?” said Mavis. A big, cow-like girl, she was secretly rather impressed by Rosemary’s pursuit of learning and therefore missed no opportunity to make fun of it.
At this point Mr. Silverborn came out of the inner office on the way back to his own room. He beamed vaguely at the three girls. Rosemary put down her pencil and shut her shorthand notebook. She said, “Yesterday evening we got to the point where the Pope decided that St. George couldn’t keep his sainthood, on the grounds that he never really existed.”
“The Pope actually said that?” said Mavis.
“About our St. George,” said Kathleen.
“Apparently so.”
Mavis said something very rude about the Pope.